Dursley, Vernon Dursley
by Royari
Summary: Non-magic, AU. Inspector Vernon Dursley always knew his nephew was trouble. No one believes him, but he's determined to prove that the Magician is really Harry Potter. Only problem? Vernon needs to catch him first.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I was bitten by a plot bunny. My apologies. Hope you enjoy - just an amusing little one-shot that was demanding to be written. And yes, the world has gone insane - enough so that Vernon Dursley is the good guy. Or at least he _thinks_ he is.

**

* * *

**

Dursley. Vernon Dursley.

Vernon Dursley grunted and pressed the binoculars closer against his eyes. He'd be damned if he let the little bugger escape.

"Sergeant," he barked. "What've you got?"

The other man glanced up. His feet were propped against the dashboard and he held a folder open on his lap. "Young lad, about twenty. Dark hair, small. Witnesses have seen someone matching that description at every crime scene, 'scept for the McDougalls'. He was spotted at the Lynks' estate by the gardener three years ago, again at the Mucklers', the Amyths', Jones', Roberts'… Some old bird, name of Figg, swore she saw him skulking round the bank just before that break-in a few months back. Said you knew her. Said it was him," the man offered.

Vernon's grip tightened. Of course it was _him_. No one had believed him, oh no, but _he'd_ seen the trouble in the boy right from the very beginning. Should've sent him off to St. Brutus's sooner, but the damned school had wanted a physiatrist's recommendation and Petunia had been convinced they needed to keep everything hushed up. Then the boy had gone and done the unthinkable – _he'd_ _broken_ _out_. Now he was loose on the streets, and getting up to the trouble that Vernon had put him away to prevent.

"Anything on the girl?" he snapped.

"Nineteen. Name's Ginevra Weasley, more commonly known as Ginny. Apprehended a few times for petty theft. Papers say she ran away from her family about the same time our boy escaped from St. Brutus."

Vernon's hopes were minutely raised by his partner's hesitation. "You don't believe it."

"No, sir. See, the oldest Weasley left Brutus the same year _he_ started, and _he_ went to the same primary school as the second youngest, Ron. The parents say they won't have anything to do with the oldest and that the girl ran away. If you ask me, that's too much to be a coincidence. I think the whole family's in on it."

Vernon's eyes gleamed. Finally catching the boy in the act would prove he'd been right all along. But a whole ring – that would be the case of his life. The promotion would be _his_.

A sudden explosion in the warehouse they were watching made him swear, and he tore off his seatbelt, bellowing at his sergeant to do the same. He threw himself out the door and stumbled behind the dumpster, the only available shelter that side of the alley. He was just in time; the car creaked ominously as something heavy landed on it, and the explosion that followed belted jets of flame and spewed metal parts.

Pulling out his gun, he crouched low and sprinted around the burning car, grimacing at the heat. His partner was half sprawled behind some old boxes and Vernon had choice words for him as he dragged the barely-conscious man to safety. Sympathy was never one of his strong suits. If the man had been stupid enough to let himself get blown up, then someone ought to cure him of that stupidity. He called for an ambulance on his mobile and irritably tossed his jacket over his sergeant.

Then something caught his eye, and he followed the shadow, knowing immediately that it would be his nephew.

"I know you're there, boy," he muttered. "Back up's on the way. Do us all a favour and turn yourself in."

Quiet laughter met his ears and Vernon was sure he was the only one who knew the boy well enough to recognize the madness in it. He cursed again, this time because he felt the situation – and that ruddy nephew of his – deserved it.

At that moment the ambulance arrived, and Vernon knew his nephew would already be gone. He'd lost his chance.

Watching his partner be taken away only made him feel worse; who knew how long the case would be delayed while he was in hospital. So he felt no regret being a little sharp with the blundering dunderhead he was forced to report to.

Especially when the man, squinting at his papers, asked if he were Dernon Vursley.

"It's _Dursley_!" he bellowed. "_Vernon_ Dursley!"

* * *

Three months. Three long, miserable, wasted months without another single ruddy lead. Vernon would've asked for another partner, but the sergeant was the only one who hadn't adopted some sort of respect for his pathetic nephew and started referring to him by that awful pseudonym.

Or so he thought.

Walking into the lobby, he was just in time to hear the end of his sergeant's recount to the pretty receptionist.

"… he just appeared out of nowhere, then _BAM!_ The thing exploded like nothing I've ever seen before. No wonder they call him the Magician." He shook his head in awe.

Vernon felt like vomiting on the man and asking if he'd ever seen anything like _that._ "NEVER SAY THAT NAME!" he roared, slamming his fists onto the countertop, spit flecking his sergeant's release papers.

The urge to strangle the other man only subsided when the sergeant timidly said he thought he knew where the boy would strike next. Vernon found himself driving up to Privet Drive to have a cup of tea and a chat with his old neighbor, Arabella Figg.

"Vernon, come in, come in. Don't mind Mr. Tibbles, sergeant. How can I help you?" she asked as they sat down.

"Arabella, we're worried the boy is going to go after your house. We'd like to take you into protective custody, just in case, and keep an eye on the house."

Mrs. Figg frowned. "What about Mr. Tibbles and my other babies?"

Vernon's sergeant was quick to reassure her. "You can take them with you, if you'd like, but it would probably be more comfortable for them if they stay here with us."

"Well, alright," she conceded. "As long as you take proper care of them. Mr. Tibbles only eats tuna on Wednesdays, but the others aren't as picky.

"I wish I'd believed you about that boy, Vernon. He always seemed like such a sweet, innocent child when he stayed with me. A bit mischievous, perhaps, but not a bad sort. Still, I can't believe he _broke_ _out_ of St. Brutus. They have the strongest security of _those_ sorts of school in the _country_." She shook her head. "He was always oddly fascinated with Houdini and the m-word." It had always been unusual how much the Dursleys hated the idea of magic, but they _were_ a prudent family with a deep dislike of anything they considered frivolous.

Vernon stiffened. The boy had been into all sorts of magic tricks, thought he was _clever_ because he could pull a coin from someone's ear. Not like Dudley, who was in his second year at Oxford with a scholarship.

"Mr. Tibbles, Mr. Tibbles, what _are_ you doing?" Mrs. Figg shrieked.

The cat had leapt onto the table and flattened itself against it, putting its ears back and hissing. He glared at the doorway.

Vernon exchanged a glance with his sergeant and they both pulled out their guns.

"We'll take care of this, Arabella."

They inched down the hallway, checking each room for any sign of him. They found what they were looking for in the kitchen.

"Bloody hell!" said the sergeant.

Taped to the wall, where the back of the refrigerator had previously rested, was a picture of Houdini.

Mrs. Figg entered the room a few minutes later, clutching tightly to Mr. Tibbles who looked less than pleased. "It was there when I answered the door," she said, shaken. "How could he have come and gone with us here and the doors locked? And what's he done with my _food_?"

Half an hour later, Vernon put the picture of Houdini into an evidence bag. He glowered, wishing more than anything that he could tear the thing to shreds, then find his nephew and do the same to him. It was imperative that he wrapped up the case as quickly as possible. Most of his colleagues were already openly disdainful; now they'd have the perfect excuse to mock him. Stolen practically under his nose…

Luckily he only had to wait a few days for the next lead. Apparently, there was an old pub that an anonymous witness thought they'd find interesting. The man swore he'd seen someone matching the Magician's – Vernon had twitched when the man used the pseudonym – description. However, he felt he ought to let them know that it was a _special_ sort of pub. That, combined with the sergeant's new information on the girl's background, made the place their next lead.

* * *

That's how Detective Vernon Dursley found himself in a stakeout outside of Madam Malkin's Brothel. Apparently Miss Weasley had some sort of lurid connection with the place, and the Sergeant thought she might have enlisted the boy in livening it up for an evening. Just the sort of disturbing thing the boy would go for, Vernon thought morbidly. His main goals for the evening were to get a sighting, possibly a photo, and to keep his sergeant from getting blown up again. Another delay in the case would give his nephew more time for trouble.

They'd sent an agent in undercover about half an hour ago, and he reappeared now, raising a cigarette to his lips in the signal. Vernon got out of the car, fingering his wallet. His gun was in the other, deeper pocket, safely concealed from sight. Both he and the sergeant were dressed informally. They were, for all intents and purposes, two friends out for a night of fun.

They nodded greetings to the man, as they would if they didn't know him, but didn't meet his eyes and avoided looking at his face in general. When they entered the building, a woman bustled over from the bar to ask them if they would like a table. It looked like a normal pub, but Vernon knew that the main service Malkin's offered was not a good price on dinner. He quickly rid his mind of thoughts that would have made his dear Petunia blush.

He lowered his eyes and opted for a discreet expression. "Actually, we heard you had something _special_ on the menu, and some friends of ours recommended that we try it."

"Ah." She understood. "Of course. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the chef so you can tell him your exact requirements."

It was like walking into a lake after months in the desert. The room they entered was full of plush furniture, luxurious fabrics, and scantily clad girls. Vernon pasted a smile onto his face as they were led to the "chef", a big, burly man with several tattoos and giggling girls clinging to either arm.

"We were hoping for a redhead," he muttered. "Young, about twenty. Our friend recommended her."

"You'll be wanting Red, then," the man said. "Probably the only one of my girls that will be able to put up with both of you at once." He eyed them scornfully. Vernon felt nauseous. "She's in there," he said, nodding to a door off to one side.

Vernon gave his sergeant a surreptitious kick – the man had been ogling one of the over-exposed girls, but it wasn't his fault, men just weren't made of as stern stuff these days – and knocked on the door.

He didn't really have a reason to be suspicious, but something about the dark room made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. So he wasn't as surprised as the sergeant when the door slammed shut behind them, presumably locked, and his nephew's inane laugh mixed with the girl's. But it was ruddy annoying and as he opened his mouth to say just that, the bloody sod had the nerve to practically pour something down his throat. He swallowed, because the other choice was to drown in the burning liquid. He wasn't surprised, either, when everything went black.

* * *

Waking up in yet another alley, Vernon was still unsurprised. It was more unnerving to find that he was only in his pants, he was not alone, and a security camera was placed right above them. Slowly, a few memories came back, causing him to actively fight against remembering any more. He looked back and forth between his sergeant, who was also only in his pants, and a girl who was wearing so little that the she made the other prostitutes look prudish.

Dear God.

He could remember his nephew smiling impishly and flinging a thong at him, but all said and done this was not the sort of evidence he had been wanting. He needed to get to that security camera and, as some of the more lurid details fought their way through his mental barrier, he realized he needed a new partner. Soon.

The prostitute rubbed up against him, mumbling slurred nonsense, and Vernon wondered how he was going to explain this to Petunia. He growled and shoved the drunken prostitute away from him.

"I'll get you for this, Potter!" he roared.

Laughter was his only response.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** On the third day of Christmas, Royari gave to me... (see profile for more info). Sorry it's not the most lengthy of things... I wasn't as inspired with this section as the last. Enjoy - y'all talked me into writing more of it! Oh, and when I said Detective in the last chapter, I meant Inspector.

**

* * *

**

Dursley. Vernon Dursley.

**Part Two:**

As Vernon Dursley shifted, he grunted in discomfort. Not even pounding against the sofa with all his might would rid the dratted thing of its lumps.

Vernon decided he hated Christmas.

He was certain the Christmas tree was mocking him. Its branches were too full, it was far too tall, and it looked far too _happy._ Vernon shot the tree a glower, reflexively glancing around to make sure no one had seen him, just in case. But the windows were as dark as they always were at three a.m., his surroundings just as silent.

The tree was probably in league with his nephew; the blasted boy was still parading around, committing all sorts of crimes and being _praised _for it. People thought he was _clever_, magi – no, Vernon couldn't even bring himself to think the word.

_Magic._

He glanced warily at the top of the stairs, expecting Petunia to appear, ready to scold him, and shuddered. The very word made him feel… abnormal.

Vernon took one last look at the tree and could've sworn its lights shone more brightly as if in agreement with his thoughts. He hastily rolled over and resolved to do whatever it took for Petunia to let him back into their bed.

He really needed to get away from the sodding tree. It was doing a number to his sanity.

* * *

Inspector Vernon Dursley was not a particularly patient man, so the fact that he still hadn't caught his nephew (which meant that he still hadn't received his promotion) rankled. It hadn't helped that he'd spent a whole month searching for a new Sergeant. His options had been appalling; finally he'd had to choose a female transfer from America.

He hated the American girl almost as much as the Christmas tree.

She dressed impeccably but her hair was so bushy it always seemed unkempt. She was obviously intelligent and her eyes were always calculating, but her Southern twang made him want to either bash her head in with a stapler or drag her to the nearby school and force someone to teach her the Queen's English, at gunpoint if necessary.

And to top it all off, her name was almost as abnormal as that of his nephew's accomplice, Ginevra Weasley. Of course, she claimed it was from Egyptian mythology or something and her parents were normal dentists, but he had the bad feeling that she was secretly involved with witchcraft or something twisted like that.

"Granger," he greeted grudgingly.

"Inspector," she returned, cheerfully. "I brought you a cup of coffee." Vernon looked nauseated and pushed the offending cup away with his index finger. "What're we doin' this mornin'?"

"Following a lead. Someone found Figg's refrigerator in Islington. Grab your gun and meet me in five, Sergeant."

Driving with the girl was never fun, either. She had a habit of shooting him disapproving looks whenever he made a mistake, like forgetting to turn on his blinker or taking a turn too sharply. Good God, he missed his old sergeant, prostitutes or not. If he'd had his old sergeant, Petunia wouldn't have had another reason to increase his stay on that damned sofa.

The refrigerator was, unsurprisingly, clean of fingerprints and anything useful, including its plug. No one had seen anything until the appliance mysteriously appeared earlier that morning.

* * *

He had no new leads until Christmas Eve, when his mobile rudely rang in the middle of dinner.

"What?" he barked through a mouthful of pheasant.

"We just received a call from the Amryths'; they think someone's tryin' to break in," Sergeant Granger said. "I'll pick you up on my way there."

That's how Inspector Dursley found himself climbing into Granger's car, his wife's disapproving gaze following his every movement. Granger was on her mobile as soon as he took the wheel.

"Yes, ma'am, we'll be there soon. Of course. Yes, I'm sure you are. We'll be there soon ma'am. Just stay there ma'am. If it is the Magician, I doubt you'll be in any danger. There's yet to be a single death in any of his robberies." Granger ended the call. "Odd," she murmured. "None of the other victims ever heard anything. D'you think he wants us to know he's there?"

Vernon grunted. "First good idea you've had," he muttered. "Weapons out," he ordered as they pulled up to the Amryth estate.

Everything was silent; all the lights on the ground floor were turned off. It made him uneasy. They approached the front door slowly. It was off the latch and Vernon pushed it open the rest of the way with his gun. Gesturing for Granger to follow him, he checked each room as they made the way down the hall.

"Nothing," he murmured. "Stairs." He inclined his head and Granger crept up the stairs in front of something.

Suddenly, she froze. "I hear somethin'!" she hissed.

Then, without another word, she took off, leaving Vernon swearing behind her. Ruddy Americans!

He quickly followed her, ducking around precariously-balanced antique vases and other knickknacks in the crowded hallway. He followed his sergeant into the room at the end of the hall. The first thing he saw was a large canopied bed. Only then did he see the woman lounging on it: she wore a silk robe, she seemed to be about his age, and her red hair curled around her chin, framing an amused smile.

"Good work, Hermione," she murmured.

Vernon stiffened and turned around. His sergeant was leaning next to the door, toying with her gun.

"I always knew there was something wrong with your name," he muttered.

Hermione grinned unrepentantly. "I'm afraid you'll need to find a new sergeant." Then, turning to the older woman, she asked, "Molly, how are you? Will the others be here soon?"

"I'm well, thank you, dear. The others are on their way. Now, Inspector, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to hand your weapon over to Hermione. Nice and slowly, that's the trick." She smiled kindly as he obliged, her face lighting up as they heard feet pounding up the stairs.

Vernon's nephew and the Weasley girl bounded into the room, hands entwined.

"Hullo, mum," the girl said cheerfully.

"Hello Ginny, Harry, dears. Are the others almost here?" Molly asked.

"They're parking," Harry chirped. "Is Uncle Vernon staying here too?"

"Absolutely not!" Vernon blustered. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, but he certainly wanted no part in it.

The boy and the Weasley girl giggled as though they found something he said quite amusing. There was the sound of more feet pounding up the stairs and then a gaggle of red-heads burst into the room.

Vernon was certain the horror he felt could be seen on his face. "Ronald Weasley," he said weakly.

The red-head in question beamed and shuffled over to Hermione's side, wrapping his arm around her waist. They exchanged a smirk as she leaned in against him. Vernon's head began to swim as he realized just what he'd gotten himself into.

"It's all right, Vernon," said the older one quietly. He looked to be about Molly's age; his red hair was beginning to thin. "We're just staying here for the holidays. The Amryths won't even know we were here. You remember the story of Robin Hood, don't you?"

Vernon nodded, confused.

"I think you should reread it when you get home," the man continued serenely. "It's a rather interesting story. The library always has a copy on hand."

Vernon blinked. The situation reminded him uncomfortably of the one he'd found himself in while visiting "Red" at Madam Malkin's.

"Don't worry too much, Inspector," Granger said, shooting him an understanding, slightly scornful look. "You won't remember this anyway."

Vernon Dursley's nephew was known as the Magician. He had long stopped being surprised when the world suddenly went dark.

* * *

There was a lot of wind. It was windy, cold, and there was something metal against his back. Vernon peered around him groggily and rose halfway up. Then he paused, because something was not quite right. There didn't appear to be anything around him. He looked again, but all he could see was empty air.

Then he looked down and every meal he'd eaten in the past few days nearly came up again.

He was getting a bird's-eye view of London from the top of Big Ben.

He was once more only wearing his pants.

There were large numbers of reporters thronging around the base of the building.

He was pretty sure that was Petunia shrieking at one of the reporters, but he was too far away to tell for sure.

He had no idea how to get down.

He hated Christmas, he hated Americans, and most of all he hated his nephew.

And, annoyingly, he had the strongest urge to read Robin Hood.


End file.
